


Heaven for Lost Souls

by ashflower



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Happily Ever After, Hope, Light Angst, PTSD, Unrequited Love, Yuanfen (if you squint)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:02:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23974201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashflower/pseuds/ashflower
Summary: Fhirdiad rises, the return of a glorious kingdom, but you think that it’s the fall of everything that you have ever known.[M!Byleth/Reader; Slight! Dimitri/Reader]
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Reader, My Unit | Byleth/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 156





	Heaven for Lost Souls

War settles into your bones, like the chill of winter winds. It creeps into your bloodstream and whispers around your entire being. The fur around your cloak is made from wolves in the most northern parts of Faerghus, but still, you can feel the frostbite upon your skin.

There is an innate difference between the two. One is familiar and therefore a welcome concept, reminding you of the winds of Fhirdiad. Days of your childhood covered in ice yet still retained the brightest sun in your memories, even now. Your parents introduce you to a boy who doesn’t look much older than you: blond hair and blue eyes, heartbreak unknown in a charming smile, and tells you that he is Dimitri, Crown Prince of the Kingdom. 

It’s in your bloodstream, this fate, this affinity between the two of you. Woven into the brocade dictated by higher beings to shape a life or two, and to write the history of many.

At the time, you smile, and nod, and curtsey to the young prince.

The other is not so familiar. Every time it greets you, it is with the face of an enemy soldier whose name you hadn’t known. Surely woven somewhere in your brocade, but also certainly a minor character. A name unnecessary for you to know, almost as if they aren’t entirely real, but the edges of their sword is sharp and cuts similar to the season’s chill. _They are real,_ you think, as their blade cuts through your flesh. _This_ is real. _War is real and it is happening, and you are at the forefront of it all._

Sometimes, such reminders slip into your consciousness, moments where you fall out of grasp with reality even in the middle of the battlefield.

There is no place for nostalgia on the battlefield. It is do or die, and your reverie burns like the cutting ties of a candlelight spell. 

“For Faerghus!” Someone shouts, valiant and noble, and the rest of the soldiers quickly follow in unison with their own pledges. 

Your own declaration goes unheard, a whisper of a name of a boy whose faith and loyalty you have pledge yours unto. Even if that boy scarcely exists anymore. 

“For Dimitri,” a life free of haunts. 

You cannot say that you hold much faith, if ever, but it seems to be the only thing holding your sanity together. The teachings of the Goddess is a concept that you have learnt since birth, and though she is cruel and fickle and rarely ever shows her plight, you kneel before her, and offer her your most sincere prayers.

You pray for everything, a growing list with every single day that passes. Sitting at the benches in the broken cathedral, shattered light glimpsing through the cracked rooftops and over fallen pillars. Garreg Mach Monastery is in shambles, but the statues have remained the same. You suppose that even bandits know better than to touch the holy.

That, or they are too afraid of the wrath of defiling the sacred.

There’s irony in the sentiment. You know that the Goddess is merciful yet cruel. Faith has been a concept foreign to you despite your upbringing, but you have never truly understood. Because if the Goddess is so merciful, then why has she abandoned you all during these trying times? 

Still, you pray to her, because you don’t know whom else to pray to; whom else you should put your tiny grain of faith into. 

Because you can feel yourself breaking at the seams, unhinged freight ready to turn into madness. You can feel yourself losing it, pieces of yourself—your body; your sanity— chipping away each time an enemy lunges at you. Every time you close your eyes, you can see the bloody path ahead of you; hear the cries of enemy and friend alike; their voices and blood indiscernible when they pool together.

You feel raw.

One of these days, you will meet your end. Only, you are uncertain of whose hand it will be on the other end of the sword: an enemy, a friend, or yours.

War is not you. It is not in your bones, nor it is in your blood. Anybody can be trained to fight and be reasoned to comply, but it does not make a person. 

At least, it shouldn’t.

You’ve lost count of how many battles you’ve fought; how many strongholds have been tamed. The many days and nights that have turned into years. Burning wood set in the furnace of the cathedral and in barrels and bonfires around the site is no different than the scent of burning villages and towns. Smoke that permeates into the air inhales exactly the same. 

This is not your war to fight, but you will persist through the prong of enemies and see to your life’s legacy because there is no you without Dimitri, even if the opposite remains true. 

Because you don’t know what else you can do. 

As long as you see that lonely, maddening figure persist and decimate, then you will continue. 

And you pray once more for the Goddess to grant mercy. 

_Please_ , you beg her, as he cuts down yet another body standing in his way, blood splattering over his pallid skin; return him to the boy you once knew. Shy confidence and humble royalty; a boy that existed, once upon a time. 

_Please,_ you beg her, _help him out of this labyrinth of ghosts._

And in exchange, you will take his madness unto you. This, you swear.

“You’ve been praying more.”

It comes as an easy realization for Byleth. It’s hard not to notice how quiet you have become; how reticent and timid you have turned. Yet those feelings stay at bay on the battlefield. You roar and you maim, and you ravage everything in sight. 

“I don’t know what else to do,” you confess, then laugh shallowly at a reminder of your younger years when you denied your faith. “I hadn’t appreciated it then, but… teacher… do you think that she hears me?” 

You hope that she does. you don’t know what you’ll do if this continues. Every day, Dimitri is straying further and further from the light, casting shadows in his wake. You don’t know if he’ll ever find his way out. You don’t know if you’ll ever find _your_ way out. 

“Do you think…” Your voice catches in your throat. 

He reaches out, a hand to your cheek. He is not human, not wholly, but when his fingers touch your skin, you are hit with the realization that some part of him is still flesh and bones.

He waits for you to continue, limpid eyes similar to sea moss—the underbelly of the seas, unsuspecting, but a treasure hidden by deeper pools of water— even as he collects your tears upon his fingertips. Peering into you with a reservation cast out by you. He won’t overstep his boundaries, not unless you let him in.

And you do. There is a calmness to him, a holiness to his humanity that makes you hope. 

He is The Boy God: conquerer of the impossible, creator of faith.

“—that there is a heaven, after all of this?” 

Something dawns in his gaze, though you are unable to discern what it means. It looks something similar to realization, or maybe ignorance. The hopeful part of you begs for it to be realization. Surely he must have pondered over such a question before? If he has, then perhaps you aren’t so abnormal, after all. 

You don’t know what you’ll do if he’s just at a loss as you. 

He doesn’t have an answer, not the one you’re looking for at least. 

In the silence of the twilight cathedral, he finally says, “I don’t know.” 

He has seen death before, gone through its cages and come back alive. It is pitch black, a chamber of decadence and poison. It hadn’t been heaven, but he supposes, had he been truly flesh and mortal, and begotten the other deity part of him, it might have been his resting spot all the same.

Maybe if he hadn’t had Her Blessing, he might have gone straight to the depths of Hell for all of the sins that he has committed. 

Over the years, yours have become no less than his, but he hopes that you’ll never have to endure a place like that.

“But we can create one,” he says, assuredly, his thumb grazing your cheek to catch the last of your tears, “—a heaven for people like us.” 

The ones forced to a fight a war that they hadn’t created. He will create this heaven for you even if it means going against everything he has ever known. 

There was a boy you loved, once. A perfect prince on the surface, scion of madness underneath. 

He still exists, somewhere. Only, this time, he bears the crown that had always meant to take: one made of thorns. For he who must bear its glory must also bear its malice. 

He stands, all wicked confidence unparalleled by any other. A single blue eye that reflects hope and relief for a better tomorrow. Lips that promise it. Wicked in spite of it all because a King is considered a good King for their benevolence, without knowing how much they need to sacrifice. How many times they will need to say no when others proclaim yes. 

A king is an embalm of destruction and reconstruction, a weaver of threads that dictates the lives of others but never his alone.

“Your emperor is dead,” Dimitri declares, victorious after a lifetime of fight. “Surrender now, and you may be granted clemency. Persist, and you will meet death.”

Clanks of metal and steel fall all around you. Plumes of magic dispel. The pools of blood around you is smaller now, less pungent in the air; a miracle in the toughest of battles. 

This is not your war to fight, nor is it your glory to bask in.

_Long live the king_ , they shout, as the sturdy forces of his army once again pledge their allegiance. One by one, enemy soldier follow suit, and, amongst them, you stand.

From the distance, you catch Dimitri’s gaze upon you. Still blue; still noble. But the tilt of his chin holds the demeanour of a King as he dictates —waits?— for your submission. 

Smoke disperses into the air. Flags of blue and silver rise upon the castle spires, replacing the ones of red and gold. 

You lower yourself to your knees, kneeling before your King who has always been your King before he wore the crown, and declare, “Long live King Dimitri!”

He does not need your prayers anymore. 

This time, you pray for his citizens: that Dimitri will be a good sovereign, and that he shall attain peace for you all. 

You will take no such part in his paradise because affection once lost… is difficult to attain again. This is your promise to the goddess.

Even if the world crumbles, there are still things that will never change.

You learn this gradually, over time. As the days turn into nights, and the nights into weeks, months, years. You are no longer a little girl, no longer that naive student attending a school that has trained you to wield a sword and cut through an enemy, but failed to teach you how to spot the difference between a classmate and a foe. 

Ashe still retains his fear of ghosts, even when he is able spot an enemy soldier miles away. Annette still squeaks whenever Felix comes about, his intimidation an art natural to him. Mercedes’s baking is still the sweetest, though Ingrid never seems to mind because her love of food is still the same. Dedue can still be found in the palace gardens, during his free time, similar to how Sylvain can be found at the art theatre whenever there is a good opera playing.

Even Dimitri —though shedding his former boyhood like snakeskin— still has similar elements. Like the way his eyes soften whenever he catches you in his sight, or how his voice never raises a notch around you. And even though he is a King now, he still retains that shy schoolboy demeanour, unable to approach you without your consent. 

You don’t give it to him, of course. _This_ has changed. He is not your school mate; not just a prince. He is a King now, and you are his humble servant, and so you move out of his grasp every time he comes near. 

There are days where you cannot recognize the reflection in the pond water, as you sit on the edge of the port. You have grown, over the years. No longer a school girl; no longer a noble. You have shed the loyalist part of you, have learnt what it’s like to say no to fate. Because if everything in the world goes as planned, then you would not be here right now. No, you would be in Faerghus, in Fhirdiad, standing alongside a newly crowned King, and you, his Queen. 

But there is nothing left for you there. 

You see him before you hear him. His reflection a recognizable blur beside your own. Even though his outfit has changed, he has not. 

He stays, pensive. Silent. Someone who has always been watching over you, a guardian angel, if they truly exist.

You pat the spot beside you, after a long time, and ask, “Won’t you sit?”

He does not. You turn around to glance up at him, only to see that he is untangling the knots of his cloak. It is thinner than your usual one, but warm all the same, as it falls over your shoulders.

He finally sits down beside you. “It is late,” he says, after a moment. 

You nod your head, even though it is barely just sunset. It is late for many things, but for once, you feel as if you are perfectly on time. 

You can feel your palm itching. It has only been a few days, but the habit is one that will take you a much longer time to forget. You sigh, and bring your knees to your chest, and wrap your hands around them to stop the itch. It will take you a long time to adjust to not wielding a sword. 

“What do we do now?” you ask him. He is the Archbishop, and Dimitri is the King, but what does it mean for everyone else? You still don’t know. 

He waits, the same way that he always had, to consider his words. There is a calmness to his being, one that lulls you into security. Only, you know that it is genuine. 

You don’t mind waiting. 

“Forward,” he replies, as if it’s really an answer. His responses are always vague, never definite. Doing what he can, but leaving what he cannot up to fate. He seems just as hesitant for a second, just as unsure, but then reaffirms, “We move forward.”

“Where is forward?” you cannot help but ask, having never considered such an option before. But you have already defied fate once, and you are uncertain if a future truly lies ahead for you. 

Byleth actually stammers, his mouth falling open and close. He’s never been speechless before, and you are surprised to see that even The Boy God has answers unknown. His eyebrows crease. He looks conflicted, and his reluctant eloquence becomes even more scarce in this moment. Yet when he actually does respond, you are actually shocked. 

“Dinner first,” he says, slowly. “Then rest. And when tomorrow comes, we’ll rise. Eat breakfast at the mass hall, counsel with the others in the morning. Lunch at noon; work for a few hours; then… fishing at twilight, once again. And then dinner.”

He nods his head with a firm confidence, as if he is pleased with his answer. You remain startled upon seeing his expression. Is he… actually smiling? 

But, you think that you can handle it. One step at a time. A change in the routine, but not necessarily impossible. “Okay.”

He turns to you, seafoam eyes bright, adding, after a beat, “Together.”

“I—“ you hesitate, but the hope in his eyes is infectious; a light that has always stayed with you through trying times, even in his absence and has been growing brighter evermore as the days go on. Certainly not mandated by fate but has been integrated into your life, your heart, all the same. A precious sort of presence that you had never truly noticed until recently. “Okay,” you concede, “together.” 

Who are you? A former school girl turned war hero. A former noble turned commoner. A hopeless girl turned hopeful.

You have turned into someone else, but maybe, it is not such a bad thing. You have grown to become someone wiser; someone stronger; someone better. And, there is someone else willing to grow with you as well. 

And together, you will create a heaven of your own.


End file.
